Brenton Booth

kurseong by swadesh misra
“Kurseong” by Swadesh Misra

INSIDE THE FLAME

Home from work at 8:30PM
my apartment starving
looking at the walls
without walls we couldn’t
survive, I think
a police siren screams
I have a glass of water
wondering if my crazy
neighbour  will call the
police again tonight and
try to get me arrested
again for doing absolutely
nothing
feet sore from going nowhere
mind sore from panoramas of
wrong—
this is how civilisations fall,
I look out the window
the moon is full
there’s stars everywhere
on one of those stars things
must be better;
maybe,
maybe not:
but enough to keep me going
for tonight anyway

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Ally Malinenko

kashinama by swadesh misra
“Kashinama” by Swadesh Misra

Ideally the American System Produces Self-Confident Capable People

I heard them outside the Duomo
in Florence, chanting
USA, USA, USA
over and over
into that sweet Italian night.

There were about 20 of them,
tan, blonde,
broad shoulders
slender waists,
their skin tightened
by years of minimal labor
and large quantities of cash
handed down to them by
broad-shouldered fathers
and slender-waisted mothers.

Their wide open mouths,
their white teeth
glistening
as they chant
USA USA USA USA
like the piazza was
a football stadium

and their country was full of winners.

Drunk on sweet air and wine
I turn back to look at them
and shout
“You’re an embarrassment”

and the chanting dies down.
I hear the shuffling of feet
the heavy sigh from my husband
who will now have to contend
with whatever  my big mouth
brings us

but then,
a lone voice
calls back to me

“No. You’re an embarrassment.”

And then,
USA USA USA
again
into that good night.

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Michael Grover

times by swadesh misra
“Times” by Swadesh Misra
 

Confessions Of An american Outlaw #363

(Transmissions For Jack Spicer #14)

Heart is so monstrous and naked that the world recoils
Words rising in my head
No one cares about heart anymore
No blood, no soul
Nobody wants to hear the truth
Curse of the damned Poet
& heart can be a dark lonely place
head can be a dark lonely place
Too much hate we all try to avoid
Too much regret
Too much good american ambition
& what good red blooded american
Does not enjoy football on a Sunday afternoon

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